


More than Enough

by RobinWritesChirps



Category: Wayward Guide for the Untrained Eye (Tin Can Brothers)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Husbands, Implied Werewolves, Late at Night, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:53:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27147622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinWritesChirps/pseuds/RobinWritesChirps
Summary: Desmond comes home after a long day of work to spend a quite late evening with his husband in their suite just above the Dead Canary.If these two aren’t confirmed husbands I’ll live but if they’re confirmed not-husbands, I’ll riot. As far as I’m concerned, they’re married inn husbands.
Relationships: Desmond Brewer/Quinn Cassidy
Comments: 42
Kudos: 62





	More than Enough

**Author's Note:**

> For the sake of the future, this was written when there were only 2 episodes out of Wayward Guide. If canon makes this irrelevant or untrue, then I can’t predict the future, sadly. I hope they’re all werewolves but I don’t know yet.

They lived in a small suite above the Dead Canary that looked and smelled like it had not seen renovations since the inn had been raised from the ground by Desmond's great-great-grandfather. Everything about it was old and dusty − Florentine would have called it authentic, he knew, or historical − but Desmond was not one to fuss about leading a life full of fancy and luxury. The furniture, the wallpaper, the decor, even the plumbing would have been outdated fifty years ago, but he liked his home well enough. He had a roof over his head and plenty of food in his mouth every day that he lived and that was good enough for him. Much about Connor Creek was just about good enough for its people.

The joints of his arms and knuckles popped as he stretched them over his head with a deep yawn − Quinn hated the sound of this, and so Desmond only ever did it when his husband was out of ear range, which was seldom. Presently, Quinn had come home a while earlier than him, as the kitchen always closed before the bar. Across the thin old walls, Desmond could hear the splashing of bathwater in their old copper tub. He had fixed the leak for the umpteenth time just earlier that week. One day, perhaps, they would have to find a new tub, a better one, but until then, the old leaky one was just good enough too.

The fire had dwindled down to a small pile of warm ashes and Desmond loaded a few more logs into the stove to kindle it again. He loved the simple pleasure of hearing the flames and sparks crackle quietly, almost a lullaby when the fire was at full swing. Then he closed the small glass door again to watch it roar. Outside, the night was pitch dark already. He kicked off his shoes and poured himself a whiskey.

All day long and well into the night, Desmond and Quinn worked at keeping the inn running, this bed and breakfast and bar he had inherited from his father just a few years before he had passed. Business was often dead as a dead horse, yet day after day they kept at it, a routine as well oiled as the old clock on the wall which, as well, had been part of the décor of the suite since forever ago. Once a year, Desmond turned its thick mechanical key at the back and it gave perfect time for yet another year. Mostly, he left it be.

The room was half plunged in darkness, lit by nothing other than the fire and the moonlight veering inside through the narrow windows. The paint of the frames needed another coat, but there would be time for that when spring would come. Desmond liked to take his time. The dogs were scattered across the room and sleeping blissfully, one on the bed, two entwined together on the sofa, one on the rug in front of the fire. When he sat down in his old leather armchair, the pup lifted his head quizzically, but Desmond only had to reach and tickle his fingers between fuzzy ears for him to fall back into slumber. The fur rug was thick and pleasant under his bare feet, rain was pitter-pattering dully against the window panes. It was almost silent, though Connor Creek was never completely silent and neither was their home. In the bathroom, Quinn was whistling and humming, but very soon he put on the late night radio show he so liked, a few minutes of tips for _pâtisserie_. He would be out soon.

Desmond chugged down the last of his whiskey and stood again to make Quinn a drink as well. Sunday nights were theirs alone only because Sundays were so busy otherwise, but with little work to be done in the morning and no need for a decent bedtime. No need for decency at all, in fact. Desmond poured his husband a proper Bloody Mary, another whiskey for himself, pulled out Quinn's slippers from under the couch, and sat back down in his armchair. He was tired, but pleasantly so, the sort of exhaustion that came before a long night of respite without obligations. Before then, the evening was not yet over.

Quinn came out wearing only his thin velvet bathrobe and dripping tiny droplets of water onto the old creaking floorboards that needed waxing about six months ago. He was drying off his short cropped hair with great care and smiled at Desmond when he saw the drink on the side table. He took an elegant sip and smiled all the more, pressing a thankful kiss on top of his hair. Of course, he had his own armchair across from the fireplace, identical to Desmond's in all ways but the blatant fact of it being much less often used. Why would he sit there when he always found the perfect seat right across Desmond’s lap?

In utter silence, they sipped their drinks quietly and let it imbue their bodies with its comfort. Desmond did not like talking much, he never had. Quinn loved to talk for the two of them, whether just between each other or when they had guests to entertain. Sunday nights, though, belonged only to each other without a word. This was how he paid Desmond his love, a drink and a night of cuddle in front of the fireplace every Sunday. Every other day of the week, Desmond tried to pay it back in tidbits of time carved for Quinn all day long, every empty hour spent around him in the kitchen, small trinkets left lying around the inn for him only to find and rejoice in. More days than not, the kitchen smelled of fresh flowers he placed there in the morning. They were never mentioned, but always appreciated.

Quinn finished his cocktail and placed the glass back down, nuzzling closer to Desmond and pressing his warm damp face in the crook of his neck. A small soft tap of Desmond’s fingers up his back led to his shoulders, his neck, landed in his hair to coil it around the tip of a finger. It was still wet from the bath, soft and pliable. Quinn himself was all softness on Sunday nights, though perhaps every day of the week just the same. In the darkness, the white of his robe was yellows and blues with fire and moon.

"It’ll be a full moon soon," Desmond said. His voice was deeper than he’d realized and he cleared his throat. "’Bout Wednesday, I think."

Quinn nodded. With a comfortable sigh, he hooked his arms around Desmond’s neck to give him a slow, unhurried kiss. His hand stayed there at his cheek and they smiled at each other.

"I think so, yes."

The nights of full moon were always sacred business at Connor Creek, even for a loner husband such as him. That was the way of things, but the Sunday nights, when he could have them so, belonged solely to him and Quinn. And those were perhaps the most thrilling nights of all.

**Author's Note:**

> Anyways please leave a comment, I THINK? this was the first posted Wayward Guide fanfiction on this site. Not certain, the tag seems new to me. Please comment.


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